Since October 15^th is always National White Cane Safety Day, I thought it might be fitting to again share Ed and my journey with his blindness. (Written in 2016 with his wise input and approval.)

Unless you’ve experienced what someone else has dealt with, you cannot make a valid judgment against them.  We take so much in life for granted… especially in what we can see and do.  But reflect with me for just a few minutes on what it would be like without one, or more, of your senses.  What if you could not smell, taste, hear, speak, or see?  What if you couldn’t walk, or move your arms?  What if the simplest tasks became so much more difficult due to a new disability?

As I’ve mentioned in other blogs and poems, my husband, Ed, was blind, and my mother was paralyzed on the right side from a stroke. Thankfully, my mom was left-handed and propelled her wheelchair with left hand and foot to visit her friends – and let me tell you, that left hand and arm of hers was so strong I had to laugh and remind her not to squeeze my arthritic hand so tight when we’d say goodbye, and she always got a chuckle out of that!

But this poem was written one day as I contemplated Ed’s dark world of blindness, and the vision I take for granted, even now.  I had to remind myself of his limitations because I’d become accustomed to how good he was at getting around the familiarity of our home without sight in a world that depends on vision.  He never wanted anyone to feel sorry for or pity him.  He had limited vision in his only usable eye, damaged by pure oxygen in the incubator for a month as a tiny 3-1/2 pound twin, having 20/200 vision with glasses. When he farmed with his dad, he managed to make barn and field chores look easy.  In reality, it wasn’t.  He made accommodations and learned to live with very blurry vision.  It’s all he knew.  Yet, he longed to drive a car or truck on the road and be like everyone else.

As a family, we learned to remember to put something back in its original place so he could find it again, and not to move the furniture without telling him, or leave a door ajar for him to walk into.  Yes, we learned the hard way to make those issues priorities… and sadly, I would forget on a few occasions.

I would also put bump dots on digital dials of appliances so he could do minor cooking and laundry, while he used rubber bands of different sizes or widths to tell his medications apart and to distinguish salt and pepper shakers.  He wanted to be as independent as possible, though his permanent statin-drug muscle damage took more of a toll and he struggled to get around, limiting what he could do. 

But there once was the day he made his usual big pot of delicious chili… with a twist.  When the kids came home from school, he heard, “Oh Pop! What did you do? There’s fruit cocktail in the chili!”  The can of fruit had gotten too close to the cans of tomatoes, and he had had no idea.  We ate it anyway.  And it wasn’t too bad, just a little sweeter than usual.  Who knows… maybe it would be worthy of winning a competition!  But, yes, life was interesting in learning to accommodate his needs… for all of us.

When he went to The Carroll Center for the Blind in Newton, Massachusetts for six months of training in the fall of 1989, we family members were given occluders to cover our eyes for a while.  (Actually, each staff member was required to wear them one day a month.)  At the end of the exercise, the kids and I, and Ed’s parents, could take our occluders off.  But Ed could not… his vision loss was permanent.  It was a stark reminder to us with sight as to how blessed we really are… and how to better understand his loss and frustration in recovering and learning a new way to function.

It’d been very hard for Ed to face the world without vision along with his other disabilities… as it would be for anyone with a disability. Our world is not always as understanding as we would like to think. Despite others’ prayers for miraculous healing, we knew that was not likely to happen due to the permanent destructive damage inside the eyes, not from our lack of faith. What we needed most were prayers and emotional support as we faced the grieving process and a new way of life.

Then there were folks who rushed past as I’d guide my husband, and their feet became entangled in his outstretched cane which feels ahead for obstacles... and I’d had to stop unexpectedly because someone cut us off sharply in their hurry, throwing him off balance, nearly falling.  We found that people would sometimes talk louder to him; he was blind, but not hard of hearing. 

Once, when he was hospitalized, the nurse’s aide actually said sarcastically to him, “Hey! What’s the deal with the sunglasses? Think you’re a movie star?” Ed calmly replied, “No. I’m blind.”  And she stumbled profusely trying to apologize.  Then there were adult stares, which I hope were due to their being impressed with his ability. During mobility training with his specialist, he was learning to find his way through the mall while she followed at a distance.  A kind gentleman came up to him, grabbed his arm and started walking, i.e. pulling, him along, asking where he wanted to go.  Ed stopped walking, thanked him, but gently explained he was learning to find his own way around.  As for the children who stared and asked their curious questions, we explained why he used a white cane to help them understand what it’s like to live in a world without sight.

But there are so many limitations placed on someone with any disability that we often don’t think about.  Ed simply could not do whatever he wanted. He couldn’t get in the car and drive wherever and whenever he wanted.  Without sight, there is so much that is missed… in the beauty of a sunny day, of flowers blooming in multitudinous hues, of storm clouds gathering, in watching brilliant flashes of lightning, of seeing a rainbow at the storm’s end, seeing the beauty of a freshly fallen snow… loved ones’ dear faces… a newborn’s precious face, never having been seen before to hold onto the memory… having lost the ability to simply pick up any book or paper to read, or a pen to write, having to take the time to accomplish those tasks a new and slower way by having them read to him or by listening to books on cassette/CDs, etc… and so much more.  And to be honest, he generally preferred we not describe the beauty around him for the painful reminder of what he was missing.

In time, though, understanding and acceptance was gained by going through the vital grieving process, as for anyone with any loss.  Life is no longer the same, and never would be.  We also learned the hard way that grief over a loss is important.  It’s a key process in learning to deal and grow, and it should not be rushed. That was also something neither of us understood early on with his blindness, until an aide from the Association for Vision Rehab in Binghamton came to our home.  Simply be there with support… for acceptance comes with the change by gaining confidence in the ability to move forward a new way… in learning new processes for what was once familiar and easy. 

Our faith in the Lord had been our support when we felt overwhelmed… when Ed couldn’t do what he wanted, and I’d been stretched to the max to pick up the slack.  The Lord listened to our prayers in the needs of everyday life.  He was at our side to see us through a journey we never expected to make.  Ask how you can pray for the one on the journey.  Ask how you might be best able to help them.  Don’t assume to know what they might need.

Take the time to understand life for someone with a disability of any kind. Take the time to put yourself in their shoes… to walk their path and understand their limitations. Take the time to love them, to share and ask questions… and then listen between the lines for what they might be hesitant to express.  Encourage them and laugh with them.  Help them overcome the changes. Walk with them, and you will both be blessed on the journey.

I Cannot See 

by Linda A. Roorda

I cannot see this beautiful day

Yet I long to bask in its brilliant glow

Taking in rays that uncover the dark

But instead I feel its warmth like flames.

~

I cannot see tender smiles that beam

As voices carry the tones of your heart,

And tears that flow in sadness or joy

Are a gentle touch felt deep in my soul.

~

I cannot see love’s beautiful face

Though I hold you near in image faded.

I take your hand and with gentle kiss

Shower affection from memories dear.

~

I cannot see what your eyes behold

As the world moves on and leaves me the past,

So let me borrow your words to describe

Changes in life without an image.

~

I cannot see somber cloudy days

Though I hear your voice cheer me on.

You tenderly hold my heart in your hand

For without your strength I could not go on.

~

I cannot see the path that we walk

Yet wisdom shared from the depth of trust

Embraces our hearts to cover what lacks

As you guide with love in step at my side.

~~

Linda writes from her home in Spencer.